“Would you have done anything else?”
There was no answer for that. It was beyond her comprehension. Everything she’d worked towards was gone, what was left was second best.
“Take it on the chin, kid. Don’t work so hard, have a little more of a life outside. Marriage, a family, the things you’ve denied yourself.”
He thought she was going to let this go, be a good girl and do as she was told, take the leftovers and be happy. Could she wait Tom out? Could she manipulate him, lead through him; was it worth it anymore?
“Don’t think about fighting it, Jacinta. It will only turn out badly for you.”
“You say that as if you think it hasn’t already.”
“I say that because this is a business and although I know it’s hard not to take it personally—”
“You’re joking? How can I not take this personally? He’s my stepfather and—”
“Family ties have nothing to do with this. Malcolm is the CEO and the board’s preferred leader.”
She fisted her hand. There was nothing more to say.
“Jacinta, are you still there?”
She felt strangely disembodied, oddly heavy limbed and light-headed.
“I want you to come and see me when you’ve had a chance to digest this. Jacinta?”
Henry’s raised voice jolted her. She gave him an answer and rang off, but she couldn’t say if she’d agreed or not. She had a full calendar but no desire to see to it. She packed up her laptop—a reflex, then left it on the desk. She’d have no need of it tonight. She left her phone as well. She needed to think, be very sure what her next move was.
Mel looked up with surprise then shut her reaction down. “You don’t look well. You should head home. I’ll cancel your afternoon.” She
said it as though it was a regular occurrence for Jacinta to go home in the middle of the day.
She went to the lift and rode it to the car park, but it stopped on the ground floor. She got out. She could change towers, drop in to IT, tell them she needed Mace for a special project, tell him she was tense to her ears, and needed his help to be able to think straight again.
She got back in the lift. He didn’t need that; for her to use the business as a hunting ground. Didn’t need his one night stand having a meltdown—again. As if the circumstances of their weekend hadn’t been odd enough.
She got in her car and drove around, not sure where to go, what to do with the sudden freedom. On a whim she pulled up on a street that housed boutiques, cafes and galleries. She sat in an outdoor cafe, drank iced tea and studied the paintings in the gallery window opposite. There was a nude, nicely done, a young woman with Lady Godiva hair and a coy expression. There was a sign about art classes.
She paid for her tea and drove home. She’d only kicked off her shoes before her buzzer went. She stared at it. It was after five, she’d wasted the afternoon doing God knows what. The figure in the video screen made a flush of heat travel through her body. She stood in her suit and bare feet and with her career in tatters and she didn’t feel so out of sync, so alone anymore, because somehow he’d known to come.
And then he lifted his head.
17: Loved
Alicia Jennifer Lauder would’ve been pleased by the sunshine. She’d have been happy about the trees and the tulips, and the aspect of the plot where Mace had her buried. She’d have liked the church music, and his new suit, Dillon’s too, bought in her honour.
He was surprised by the number of people who’d come to the service, who stood around now as her coffin was lowered into the earth. But he shouldn’t have been. Buster was loved after all, and until she began to fade had a large group of friends.
The women from her craft group came, her book club, the library where she’d volunteered. Even a couple of old colleagues from the florist where she’d last worked introduced themselves and gave Mace their condolences.
A woman pressed a photograph into his hand. Buster, young and laughing, pushing him on a swing, when he was about five years old. She was so beautiful it made his hand shake to hold the image, and once in his pocket it had a kind of buzz about it that made him want to keep checking it was still there.
Dillon refused to remove his sunglasses, not even in the dark, cool church. Standing in the sun, Mace wished he’d thought to bring his, but his short-term memory was shot to hell. He couldn’t remember whether he’d had breakfast or when he’d last spoken to Nolan, and he hadn’t been at work for days.
He should care about that. He still needed the job since the Summers-Denby investment committee knocked back their proposal and they were back where they started. No surprise. And no excuse to be bitter about it.
Instead, he seemed to be able to recall every conversation he’d ever had with Buster, big and small, trivial and important. The sound of her voice before the Parkinson’s destroyed it, unwavering, strong, but gentle too, filled his ears, distracted his nights.
“We should’ve done a proper wake, you know tea and sandwiches with the crusts cut off,” said Dillon.